


The Matriarch

by Sharzdah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1960s Music, 1970s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Crimes & Criminals, Illegal Activities, New York City, Old version, On Hiatus, Period Typical Attitudes, Power Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, References to Historical Events, Rewrite will be posted under new name, Sansa didn't choose the mob-life, Scheming, Slow Burn, Under Major Revision/Reconstruction, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, abandoned, mentions of domestic violence, the mob life chose her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:35:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharzdah/pseuds/Sharzdah
Summary: She was raised to become the trophy wife of one of the most notorious mobsters in New York. A frivolous arm candy, paraded around as proof of her husband's power. A simple, naive, obedient woman, who would never know how to play the "Game."No one, in their right mind, would have expected her to become the Queen of the Winterfell Syndicate. No one except for three men.Complete Rewrite posted as a new story, titled, “The Muse.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings!  
> As of 12/14/2018, this version of the story is considered abandoned. A new and improved version will be posted shortly under the title, “The Muse.”
> 
> Thank you so much for your support! I absolutely hate doing this, but after reading this version over, I came to the realization that I needed to start over if I wanted this story to continue.

 

" _Hey Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand?"_

Sansa froze when the lyrics reached her ears. They were simple lyrics, nothing too special, nothing too complicated. There was no hidden meaning, no objective. But they rendered her incapable of doing much else.

It was such a solemn song, supported by a strong guitar and drums. And that hum in the background... it was a song about a man named Joe who had presumably killed his "old lady" for being unfaithful.

She was standing at the entrance of her living room, completely oblivious to her maid dutifully vacuuming the carpet around her. She almost lost her balance when she took a step back, rolling her foot over a stray marble when she listened to the man's voice trailed off over the radio, allowing for the drums to perform their short solo.

The song, those lyrics, shouldn't have a deafening effect on her.

But they did.

Sansa didn't care for the style and frankly, found the lyrics downright distasteful, but the words resonated with her. They spoke to her. More than any priest at Mass ever had.

The singer was asking this "Joe" the same questions she had asked _him_.

"Ma'am...?"

Sansa snapped out of her trance and turned her attention to her maid who was looking at her employer through concerned eyes. "Lidia, what is this song?"

"I'm not sure, Ma'am," Lidia replied, glancing at the radio. "I don't listen to this... rock n'roll nonsense. It was only on the radio. It was too quiet around here, and I..."

Sansa stopped listening as then man shouted, " _I shot her_!"

"Hey, everybody, that was _Hey Joe_ , by Jimmi Hendrix," the disc jockey announced moments later to his audience over the radio. He soon switched to another song. The Beatles. Thank goodness.

Jimmi Hendrix… but how could he have known?"

_"Shot…? What do you mean you shot her, Theon?"_

_"She was messin' around with another man!"_

_"Myranda wasn't yours!"_

Although he was officially a member of another family, the Greyjoy's, Theon had worked with her husband as a liaison for some years now, ever since returning from that war in Korea. He had a thing for Myranda, which had been coy about for a very good reason. Myranda had belonged to Ramsay—he had to have known how much Ramsay supposedly cared about Myranda. He had to have known what would happen if he dared laid a hand on such a desirable women. Theon had his issues, no doubt, and might be too jealous for his own good, no doubt, but he was no fool.

Or so she had thought.

Sansa shook her head. What was she thinking? Jimmi Hendrix. There was no reason why he would know about what happened to Myranda, and Theon's involvement. He couldn't have possibly known that she had essentially allowed Theon to escape to the Iron Islands, off the coast of Mexico.

"Do you want me to turn it off, Mrs. Bolton?"

Sansa rubbed her hands together and shook her head again. "There's no need. Continue on with your work," and with that, she walked away from the living room. She didn't think about where she was heading. Perhaps to her room? To her nightly prison? No, she soon realized; she was heading in the opposite direction.

Was the song a divine sign? Telling Sansa that she could no longer keep such a dreaded secret? Or maybe she was simply dreaming about the song, and her guilt decided to rear its ugly head? After all, she had been the only who saw Theon flee into the arms of his powerful sister, a sometimes ally of her husband's—but she didn't have much choice in the matter.

It was only when she past the front door and the solider guarding it, did it finally register in her mind. She was heading to her husband's office. The room she didn't go to often due to the promise she had made her husband on their wedding night. Ramsay always conducted his business in that room, with clients working on both sides of the law. With clients expressing their grievances or asking him for some under-the-table employment. That office where the deals went down—who to pay, what to steal and from whom, who to kill…

He was in there. Sansa knew that because only fifteen minutes before, she had delivered to him his afternoon coffee—black with no sugar. Bitter, just like him. He didn't have any scheduled appointments for at least, another couple of hours, so he wouldn't be too upset to see his wife step foot into his realm without prior authorization.

"Ramsay, darling..." Sansa called out.

"What is it now, Sansa?"

"What? I can't visit my own husband just to say hello?"

Sansa joked, trying to lighten the mood. The joke fell flat; she could tell by the way her husband's grip tightened around his coffee mug. She sigh—a part of her screamed to leave the man be, and just forget about the confession. Maybe hang out with a friend in Northern Westchester? Or maybe shop on Fifth Ave? Ramsay wouldn't mind; he would probably revel at the thought of his wife being out of his hair until the evening—but Sansa stood her ground.

Those damn lyrics kept playing in her head. And that guitar and that somber hum.

Ramsay remained silent, and Sansa did not say another word as she walked up to him. She stood his side, looking at what he was looking at: their garden and the Long Island Sound.

Sansa admired the sight in front of her while Ramsay stared at it as if it had personally offended him.

"What is it now, Sansa?" Ramsay asked once again, not once removing his eyes from the window to look at his wife.

Sansa sighed. She wanted to tell her husband everything, but she didn't want to provoke him when he was obviously in such a vulnerable state. He had been looking for his precious Myranda… and Theon for quite some time. With no results. And thus, Sansa knew she had to choose her words carefully. "Do you love me?"

Ramsay scoffed and finally turned to look at his wife. There was no love behind his eyes—there barely was. Only disdain, looking at her as if she was a fool for standing in front of him. A child. A simple nuisance. "How many times do I gotta tell you that I do?"

He had told her many times, but Sansa was sure it had been out of obligation, nothing else. Deep inside, she wanted to believe that Ramsay had loved her when he had asked her to marry him. She had thought so when he had said, "I do," but now, with the business, the politics, the obligations, and the money, she could never be sure.

Oh, who was she kidding? She was second-rate compared to the business.

Sansa cleared her throat, and resumed staring out of the window. It was such a beautiful day with not a cloud in the blue sky. It was May of 1968, the perfect for all of the flowers to bloom. Especially her precious tulips. She could see them—pink, yellow and white—from her vantage point, being carefully tended to by the gardener. The sight in front of her was so serene, a sharp contrast to how she felt inside.

"Would you ever hurt me?"

It was a dangerous question for a dangerous man, but she couldn't bare not to ask that question. He had never physically hurt her—a few slaps to her face (and that horrid wedding night) didn't alarmed her too much, telling herself that he could have done much worse. Yes, he had said some hurtful things to her in the past and threw a few things her way out of her anger, but never bad enough to call the cops—not that they would do anything since apparently, domestic matters were private and therefore, weren't under their jurisdiction.

"Do I have a reason to?"

Sansa's heart skipped a beat as her eyes widened at the obvious implication of Ramsay's response. She gulped, but refused to lose her resolve. She had to remain strong. "I know I'm not supposed to get involved in your business, but I heard you talking about Theon, and…"

"So what if I talked about Theon. What's it to you?"

"I…" Sansa trailed off, losing confidence. She was taken aback by the hardened tone in Ramsay's voice. It had been an expected response, but an alarming one. "I saw him before he disappeared just as he entered his car with a shotgun," she confessed. "He was heading south. To Mexico, to his sister, because he had killed Myranda. He shot her. He told me he did. He told me everything."

"Theon, please, for heaven's sake, put that gun away. I'm not Ramsay, I'm not going to do anything to you."

"Promise me, you won't tell a soul."

"Please, Theon."

"Promise me or I swear to God, I'll pull the fucking trigger!"

"That was my woman," Ramsay snapped. "And you let him get away?"

Sansa blinked away the memory and took a step back, glancing down both balled up in fists. "He had a gun to my head. What was I supposed to do?" she cried.

Ramsay slowly loosened his fingers, cursed under his breath and turned around, facing the window again. "Fuck, how could I be that stupid?"

He wasn't stupid, he just trusted the wrong man—Sansa didn't dare tell her husband that. Those weren't the words he needed to hear.

"I'm sorry, Ramsay. I truly am. I know I should've told you earlier, but I—"

Ramsay raised a hand, effectively cutting off his wife's frantic apology. "You said he was in Mexico?"

Sansa gulped and nodded. "Yes."

"And you're positive that he left because of Myranda?"

"That was what Theon told me," Sansa said immediately. Perhaps she regretted even walking into this room. Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut and live on her life like the oblivious woman everyone thought her to be. But she spoke up again, "He made me promise not to tell anyone or else he would kill me."

Ramsay faced his wife. The expression on his face was stormy, violent. He was ready to wage war and die trying to win it. He felt more rage about his mistress than at the murder of his father. "Well, that's one thing you won't ever have to worry about," he said, feigning calmness.

Sansa couldn't be fooled. Her husband didn't have a "calm" bone in his body.

* * *

Sansa didn't know how to feel about Ramsay's fate.

Or how to react.

It was inevitable. She had dreams about it, and not all were nightmares. She had expected her destiny long ago, the only that told her that she would leave this world a widow. She had been married to a very dangerous man, of course she and Ramsay weren't going to grow old together. She had expected that fact a year into her marriage, and expected it the moment one of Ramsay's associates, a known executioner, Sandor, had told her the news.

She should have felt devastated, but didn't.

She should have felt relieved, but couldn't.

She should feel worried, but didn't bother to.

There wasn't any reason to. No one would expect a damn thing. No accusations or looks would be tossed her way.

After all, she was just a wife. A housewife to a well-known vicious gangster with a strong hold over Westchester and parts of the Bronx. She was arm candy, a trophy that proved Ramsey's ability to get anything he wanted. She couldn't possibly have the moxy, the intelligence, the determination to do anything outside of managing her house, hosting and attending charity events and parties.

Or so they thought.

Maybe, she could feel free, just like in her dreams. No more watching her back, fearing the worst. Hoping she hadn't stepped on the wrong toes. No more running into sadists, into men pointing a gun to her head. No more dealings with husbands who would rather raise Hell over his mistress than she own damn wife.

The ensuring war was so foolish, and Ramsey had paid for it dearly.

By whom? Only a wife would know.

She had dreams about this moment, usually feeling joyful at its very end. But now, she knew that she had allowed her utopian thoughts dictate her feelings. She wouldn't be any freer—maybe free of Ramsey, but not free of this life.

And this war wasn't going to end.

* * *

"Who did you think did it?" Sansa asked the man next to her. Sandor, commonly known on the streets as simply, "The Hound." Ramsey's executioner. They were both standing in front of the room, facing the expensive casket that housed Ramsey's cold form. She took one step and peered over. Ramsey looked the same; just as he had been found. Despite his mother's efforts to make him look presentable.

She was at an awake, the second one of the week for her dear husband. Her mother-in-law, such an inconsolable woman, had insisted that everyone all over the country and the world should have the opportunity to see her "baby boy" before he was sent to his resting place. Six feet under at Woodlawn cemetery.

Sansa had declined all suggestions about changing Ramsey's appearance. She had provided everyone some bullshit excuse about her decision, but in reality, she had thought that Ramsey needed to leave this world with his soul inside out—He had lived like a monster, even enjoyed being on, and thus should be interred as one.

Her mother-in-law refused to speak to her.

Her sisters-in-law refused to look at her.

If it had been years before, Sansa would have been sensitive to that fact; she had always been a people-pleaser, but now, she couldn't give a damn about them. She wouldn't mourn any of their demises, not with the way she had treated her all these years.

Sansa felt Sandor's gaze on her.

Sansa glanced up at him, inquisitive. She wondered if he knew everything. The truth. The story, she supposed the unofficial version, that wasn't told to Ramsey's associates or family. She usually wouldn't think of about this. She knew that the rest of the soldiers, the lieutenants and such harbored no suspicion. But Sandor, standing tall to her next, his strong shoulders tensed, the anxious twitch in the man's eyes—it told her that he had.

She was relieved that he held enough respect for her not voice his opinion. He was usually the kind to speak his mind, no matter who was in his presence. Perhaps that could explain his terse relationship with his brother.

"I fucking hate funerals."

Sansa resisted the urge to chuckle. That was an ironic statement coming from a man who single-handedly kept various undertakers in business.

Sansa hadn't bothered to fight her about it.

"It's not designed to be pleasant," Sansa quietly replied, glancing to her right to see her mother-in-law in hysterics. She thought about comforting the wretched woman, but the she hadn't comforted her when her mother, Catelyn, had been brutally murdered. Perhaps her reluctance to leave her post was a moment of immaturity, but Sansa couldn't careless at the moment.

"Of course."

Sansa didn't have to look up; she sensed the executioner rolling his eyes. She rubbed her hands again before stopping to play with her wedding ring. A five-carat, platinum monstrosity, not bought out of love, but out of assurance. The man had power. The man had money, and she ought to be happy about it.

Her fingers stilled.

What the fuck was she doing with her life?

"I appreciate your concern," Sansa spoke up again. She didn't give the man any reference to this "concern," but she had a feeling that she didn't have to. Cruel he might be, but he wasn't stupid. "All I ask is for you to take your suspicions to your grave."

"I ain't a fucking rat."

Sansa tried not to give the man a reassuring smile. "I know, but I thought I would ask." She glanced her at mother-in-law, currently mourning in the arms of the wife of one of Ramsey's lieutenants. "For reassurance."


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments and kudo's. 
> 
> Warning: this chapter is what happened when I watch too much of the show, "Narcos," and listen to too many True Crime podcasts about mobsters.

Sansa was not involved in Ramsey Bolton's murder.

But she hadn't stopped it either.

She hadn't done anything when she saw the men bring in Ramsey's precious dogs. Blood hounds starving because of their master's insistence that only he fed in- an impossible request since he had been gone for ten days.

She hadn't done anything when she saw her husband inside that cage. Chained, sitting in blood, enough blood to hurt but not kill. He had been shot in both legs, both bullets miraculously missing his artery. She had stepped aside when the men had asked her to. She had faced her husband when the men opened to cage, oblivious to Ramsey's yells.

She hadn't done a damn thing when the dogs were released into the cage. Or when the men left.

A part of her considered burning the whole thing down, to hide the screams, the body... but the hounds didn't deserve that fate. And therefore, she spent the next several seconds watching the hounds pull at her husband and then left the compound. She had decided to keep the hounds. To everyone, it was for her safety. To people who truly knew her, it had served as a reminder.

* * *

"You're crueler than you let on," Sandor would tell her three days after Ramsay's death. He had been coy about the entire affair, much to Sansa's relief. He didn't have to answer to any higher power; at this moment, there wasn't any in the Bolton organization, but he had remained silent. For Sansa's sake.

She found it absolutely incredible He was a giant, larger than any other man in Ramsey's organization. He was rough, crude and generally held no sense of compassion for anyone outside of his mother. A man such as the "Hound." One of the best executioners to walk the streets of the Northeast, abiding by her wishes, expecting nothing else from her. She didn't know how that felt—people, men, being friendly without an obvious ulterior motive.

"I wouldn't define myself as cruel," Sansa insisted, leaning down to pat her precious hounds. It was incredible watching these creatures, such beautiful dogs. Peaceful dogs, but when they were pushed to the corner, unable to breath, refused the basic necessities to live, they turned into monsters. "I simply refuse to feel sorry for myself."

"Smart, then."

Sansa slightly smiled when one of the dogs approached her. She held out her hand containing some treats and her smile transformed into a wide, genuine one as the hound ate from her hand. "I may be slow to learn, but when I finally do… I learn." She stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. "We should leave."

Sandor nodded, stepping aside to let Sansa walk ahead of him, up the basement stairs to the first level of her Long Island home. He had offered to help her up—the stairs were rickety—but Sansa politely declined.

"May I ask you a question?" Sansa asked the executioner when she reached the top of the steps. She quickly removed her apron, folded it and placed it in front of the basement door. Her maids would soon pick it up and wash it.

"Go ahead."

"I know this may sound..." Sansa trailed off as she headed to the guest bathroom, adjacent to the living room, to wash off her hands. Sandor followed close behind. "Why have you always been so pleasant in my presence?"

Sandor raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliant?"

"Of course, not," Sansa insisted. "It's just. I see how you act around everyone else. Around my husband—I was simply wonderful."

"Do you want me to be honest?"

Sansa smiled as she turned on the water. She didn't respond as she dabbed some soap on her hands and began to clean them. She looked at her reflection in the mirror—it had been days since Ramsay's death and she could still see him behind her, snarling at her, smirking at the same time with something in his hand. Usually a weapon: a whip, a knife or a gun. Ready to play a "game." She could feel herself becoming nauseous until she had harshly remind herself that the man was dead. Buried deep within Woodlawn cemetery. The bastard wasn't coming back.

"Yes." Sansa turned off the water and reached over to wipe her hands dry using the dry face cloth; she made a note to remind Lidia to wash this too. "Brutally, if possible."

"Because you ain't a cunt."

Sansa had always found Sandor's blunt words humorous. It was brash, socially deplorable. But he was honest, and Sansa appreciated that. There weren't many honest people in her life. She glanced to her right. Sandor just stood there, looking as serious as ever. She let out a small huff, and asked, "Have you met many of them, Sandor?"

"All the fucking time."

"And why do you call them that?" Sansa asked, stepping out the bathroom. She stopped in front of him and looked up; the man now looked amused. "A cunt?"

Sandor just laughed.

"Do I sound humorous to you?"

"I've never thought I'd hear you say that word."

"Well, I guess I'm one for surprises," Sansa said, shrugging, and then, "You don't have to answer my question. I'm glad you think I am a…"

"A cunt."

"Right," Sansa replied. "And how do you feel about my late husband?"

"Then or now?"

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Your opinion's changed?"

"No, I still think he was an asshole."

Sansa nodded. The man was blunt as ever. Thankfully, none of Ramsay's other associates were around. They were all busy snooping around Long Island and New York City for any conspirators of their boss' murders. Sansa wasn't too worried about anyone finding out the truth.

"So, did I," She said. "So, did I."

* * *

Sansa didn't have to worry about the burning down the building. One week later her husband's murder, the police had agreed to turn the building down for her. It hadn't been her request, but she had a feeling that Petyr Baelish, known as "Littlefinger" had something to do with it; he always had relationships with the local police department.

"It was for the greater good," Petyr, ever the persuasive man had told the police chief. Both men were standing outside, looking in at the building. "No one wants to see that."

Sansa was standing right between them, also looking up at the building. It should've been turned down years ago. It was beyond repair, a sore spot in a neighborhood full of grand homes and the shores of Long Island Sound.

"No," the police chief said. "No, no one does."

"Then it's decided."

The chief turned his attention towards the widow. "And you, Mrs. Bolton? Is this okay with you?"

Sansa sighed. "I wouldn't want to see this whilst walking with the children."

Both men nodded. The chief tipped his hat. Petyr smirked at her, as if proud of the widow's response—She didn't match his expression.

"Do you have any children, Mrs. Bolton?"

Sansa had raised an eyebrow at the chief's question. His words held no malice. Just curiosity. She had given him a tight smile. "One day," she whispered. "I would like to have some one day."

That  _day_  had passed quite a few times over the past several years. Sansa had always wanted children; she wanted a whole horde of them. Boys and girls. But not with  _him_. It wouldn't have been fair to her future children, to have such a man as a father. To witness his brutality towards others and his wife—she had been pregnant twice while married and terminated them both.

Illegal, it might have been. Morally wrong, some might have argued, but Sansa couldn't imagine bringing a child into this world, bearing Ramsey's name.

"Do you have any idea who could have done this?"

Petyr had his eyes on her while Sansa had shrugged. She had been playing the role of the dumb housewife, and she had been terrific at it. "I don't involve myself in my husband's affairs."

"Anyone?"

"Sir, I thought we have established already that Mrs. Bolton does not have any insight into the death of one Mr. Ramsay Bolton," Petyr answered for Sansa.

Sansa didn't think Petyr had to answer for her. The chief hadn't been accusing her of anything, much to her relief. She had sighed, shaking her head. "No. My apologies."

"No problem, Mrs. Bolton, no problem." The chief removed his hat, ran a hand through his thinning blood hair and put his hat back on. "And once again, I am sorry for your life, Mrs. Bolton."

"I appreciate it, Chief. Thank you."

* * *

Sansa never had any intentions on being involved with the Bolton's business enterprises, but at this moment, two weeks later, she finally realized that she didn't have any choice.

Ramsay didn't have many allies; his mode of business had always been seen as barbaric, unnecessarily so, another Dutch Schultz, but perhaps even worse. But the man had ways of making money, and therefore managed to have a sizeable organization. He officially had fifty men on his payroll, and unofficially a handful of cops. And countless others, serving as associates.

And not one man had a leader.

There was no heir to the Bolton Empire. The Bolton's didn't have any children, and Ramsey hadn't bothered naming any of his top guys as a successor; the man had always thought he would live forever.

There had been rumblings about Petyr taking over, but Sansa knew the man. She knew he liked to lurk in the shoulders. He was an intelligent, alluring man, but he wasn't a leader.

He wasn't the kind to stand up in front of a group of hardened men, and tell them to simply move on. He did have a crew back in the early '50's, some even remained, but it seemed that he had spent more time working with the Bolton's than his own business- not that Sansa was complaining. She didn't want to admit it, but she needed him more than ever.

She needed him to serve as her anchor until she figured out what was going to do.

"What you are going to do is take your late husband's place," Petyr would tell her one night. they were both sharing dinner inside Sansa's marital home, surrounded by no one but the guards standing outside of the dining room. Sansa had sent Sandor home some time ago.

"You want me to become Boss?" Sansa asked, partially amused at the suggestion, partially horrified at the fact that the man would even make a suggestion. "If the men won't get behind you, what makes you think they would get behind me?"

"Because the Hound would never leave your side."

"No offense, Petyr, you two don't even like each other," Sansa remarked, reaching for her wine. "How would you know?"

"I am very observant person, Sansa," Petyr said, and then, "Also, if you haven't noticed, we are still in a middle of a war."

Sansa took a tip of her wine and sighed. Yes, the war. The war her husband had unwisely started because of his rage about what happened to his precious Myranda.

She had to snort— _Myranda_. Why did everyone seem to lose their collective minds when it came to her? She hadn't been anything special, dead or alive. She lacked the grace and the background to walk in Sansa's shoes. She had been a failed actress-turned-mistress. She would have never been accepted in the inner circle, full of wives of politicians, business and gangsters possessing enough clout to  _appear_ legitimate.

"I have no qualms with the Greyjoy's," Sansa told her adviser. "I don't have any qualms against anyone besides the Lannister's. I don't wish to continue with this conflict."

"Your men think otherwise."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. " _My_   _men_?"

"As far as everyone else is concerned, the Greyjoy's caused your husband's death. They want blood."

Sansa remained doubtful. People in the Bolton enterprise didn't admire Ramsey; most were scared of their mind in his presence. She was pretty sure many of them had spent the past couple of weeks reveling about his death. "They just want an excuse to get the Greyjoy's."

Petyr shrugged. He didn't deny it. "Despite the purpose, we can't back down now. Although it pains me to admit it, Ramsay's death was a blow to this family. Everyone knows it, and everyone it looks to get a piece. Especially the Lannister's."

"Then we go after the Lannister's?"

"I thought you said you didn't want a war."

"With the Greyjoy's," Sansa clarified, watching the man across from her table intently. "I prefer not to be in a war at all."

"So, you want a truce?"

"Do we any other choice?" Sansa asked, reaching for her wine again. She didn't like this conversation. She was speaking as if she was leading the Bolton's. She didn't want to have anything to do with it—but, she realized grimacing—she didn't have much choice.

"You've seen the light, Sansa."

Sansa looked up and cleared her throat. "What makes you think I can do this?"

"Because I know deep inside you know you can," Petyr replied, smirking. "Because I know you've been observing all of the business matters, albeit subtly, during the past several years. You are not as oblivious as some make you out to be."

* * *

Not everyone was keen with Sansa's reliance on Petyr. She didn't see it as a "reliance." She needed guidance, and she needed it from the man who seemingly knew and saw everything. He had been the whole who coached her; the one who told her how to handle the unhappy Greyjoy's (about the recent bloodshed) and the even more unhappy Tully's (about a botched partnership).

And so far it helped.

But that didn't change many people's mind. Sandor didn't trust him. The actual Bolton family members wanted him out of sight. Sansa's own family had said the same (though Jon was being understandable quiet about it; timing was everything with him. Arya, though not involved in any of the "Game," had been the most outspoken about it.

" _I don't understand why you have him around,"_ Sansa remembered Arya telling her back in '61. One week before her wedding to Ramsey. They had both been standing inside of Sansa's room, getting ready for the older sister's final dress fitting. _"He's a fucking snake."_

 _"Language,"_ Sansa had chastised. She hadn't understood what went wrong with Arya's upbringing. The girl's mouth had been dirtier than some of their father's solders. And her demeanor? Despite what their mother, Catelyn, had desired, Arya would never attend a debutante ball.

_"I'm serious, Sansa."_

_"He's a wise man."_

_"He'll fuck you over,"_ Arya had argued, crossing her arms, resembling a little child, moments away from throwing a tantrum.  _"You'll see."_

Sansa had given her sister a disapproving look.  _"Don't you mean my future husband?"_

 _"Who was sent to you by Petyr,"_ Arya had retorted. _"Don't you remember?"_

Oh, Sansa had remembered, and she hadn't been happy about it. She would never be, but she had told herself that it would be for the best. Because it wasn't like she was going to marry some guy off the street. The Bolton's had money. If she played her cards right, she could have influence over the Bolton's. For the Stark's sake.

_"This conversation is ever."_

_"Of course it is."_

* * *

"Mrs. Bolton?"

Sansa immediately opened her eyes. She looked beyond Petyr with his inquisitive expression and locked eyes with Sandor, who was standing right next to the door with his folded in front of him. She could tell that he was seething, more or less because he was in the presence of Petyr. They had never liked each other, but tolerated each other for the sake of business.

"Yes, sorry. As you were saying?"

"Did you hear about Kennedy?"

Sansa placed a cigarette between her lips, flipped open her platinum coated lighter and lit up the tobacco. She took one drag and sighed. Of course she had heard. Everyone in the damn country heard about the assassination. One of many assassinations during this decade; it was like a damn battlefield. Wars over at Vietnam, wars over in this country. Wars in Sansa's inner circle. She was beginning to get used to hearing news of some assassination or its attempts every other day.

"Yes, I did."

It was now early June and Sansa found herself sitting inside her husband's office. The one where he conducted business. The one she had been unofficially banned from for years. But now, she was in control the room, of this house and until someone stepped up on the plate, her husband's business enterprises. It was a thrilling, but sobering thought. She, the quiet wife of a sadistic man, now had the business in her hands. Not officially, course. Someone along the line was going to demand her to hand him over the keys. To step aside. To play her role by staying in her lane.

But thank goodness, it wouldn't happen anytime soon. Because the Bolton's, being such a violent family, didn't have much "family" left. Most of the male members had died violent deaths and the rest of them stood clear of it.

"I did."

She sat up in her husband's seat, took a long drag from her cigarette and glanced up at the man sitting in front of her, with that infuriating yet intoxicating smirk on his face, the one that made most people either wanted to punch his face in or kiss him. Petyr had that aura about him.

"Unfortunate, isn't it?"

She gave Petyr a look. He seemed pleased about the news. Too pleased. "It is. He had just won the Democratic nomination for president. Killed by a child."

"Apparently, there are rumors that the mob did it."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. Oh, yes. John F. Kennedy. The official story was a lone wolf had done the killing, but there had been rumblings that something else had gone on. She figured no one would truly know the whole story, much to the chagrin or excitement of conspiracy theorists everywhere. "He wasn't his brother."

"Well, he did try to do anything in his power to bring down Giancana," Petyr said. "Maybe his people are still upset about that."

"Do you think we had anything do with that?"

"No."

"Good."

"I suppose," Petyr glanced behind him, seemingly at Sandor. But the man didn't move a muscle; his gaze remained straight ahead. "I can't say I miss him."

"Which one?"

"The first one," Petyr said, crossing his arms. He was becoming frustrated; Sansa could tell by the way his eyes narrowed and the flaring of his news. "All he did was lie and lie. Was the reason why we had lost our stronghold on Cuba. All of my casino's closed because of a communist revolution?"

"Perhaps if you had appeased Castro like Trafficante tried to do, your fortunes would look different."

Petyr's grimace dropped and was refused by a full-fledge smirk. "Ah, so you have been playing attention. Wonderful. Well, Trafficante he tried that route. And he still lost."

"He still runs Tampa."

"But no longer Cuba," Petyr reminded Sansa. "I'd rather run a country than a city."

"But wouldn't be that be... I don't know, more complicated?"

"Complicated gives you notoriety, Sansa."

Sansa nodded as a reflex. Not necessarily because she agreed with Petyr's words. He had a tendency to "go big." She didn't know how she should feel about the man. He had a reputation. A frightening smart, handsome older man who used to work for her father, Ned "Lord of the North" Stark.

Petyr had recently been Ramsey's main negotiator, involved in various dealings, from contraband imports to his marriage. He was a master manipulator, but then again, wasn't everyone else? Everyone in the business looked after themselves. Even family. For the most part.

Petyr's moral compass wasn't consistent, but then again, wasn't everyone else's? Wasn't it hers? His morals didn't make him difference. It didn't make him stick out.

But she was drawn to him because he actually talked to her about the game. Explained everything from mob politics, to actual politics to the price of every racket to who was going to be made a "made man" to who was going to get "whacked."

Sansa scrunched up her nose at the word. She didn't know why people couldn't just say "assassinate."

_"It gotta sound badass. Not formal or shit," Sandor had explained to her some years back. "So, that's why we use 'whacked' instead of 'assassinate.'"_

Sansa shook her head at the memory. Besides being Ramsey's hitman and the occasional bodyguard, Sandor often served as Sansa's urban, up-to-date dictionary regarding the hottest new lingo. Though "whacked" had existed for years— she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Her father, though a mobster himself, wanted to create an aura— his family, the Starks weren't going to be like them. They were going to roam the streets with their heads up high, go to the best schools, and navigate the right social circles. High-class in every way.

But in the end, no matter how much Ned Stark wanted to believe otherwise, he had still been a mobster.

Each dollar he had earned. Every cent he had dedicated to his wife and children's decadent life style had been obtained through the rackets- extortion, laundering, the drug market... Heroin had been his thing.

She shut her eyes—she didn't want to think about her father. His dealings, his execution. She had been so young when he had been taken from her life back in '57. She still wasn't over it.

"The whole situation is just unfortunate," Sansa reiterated, and then changed the subject because she hadn't called Petyr in to discuss yet another Kennedy assassination. "We were talking about the decrease of finances during this quarter?"

"Ah, yes," Petyr said. "Like I've mentioned before, Sansa. Times are changing. The traditional ways of doing business aren't working any more. Sure, you can get involved in the casino business, but they are far too many hands in it."

"I have no intentions on moving out West."

"I figured as such."

"Then what do you suggest we do, Mr. Baelish?" Sansa asked, looking beyond her advisor once more to focus on Sandor. He had tensed up. Interesting.

"Well, Mrs. Bolton, I don't see why we can't be involved in the drug trade. At least, more than we've traditionally had." Petyr leaned in closer. "I hear that the heroin business is gaining steam. More than the marijuana business ever had."

"I'm not a fan of heroin," Sansa told the man. It was true; heroin was bringing in the profits, but heroin wasn't much of a sell in her circle. A circle full of socialites and other wealthy members of society. It was a messy drug.

"Then how about cocaine?" Sandor suggested. "Get it from South of the Boarder."

"You want to interact with Mexicans?" Petyr asked, grimacing at the thought. He had prejudices towards them for reasons Sansa never understood. He was a business-minded man; he shouldn't care about whom he dealt with. Money was money.

Sansa leaned back in her chair. This wasn't what she wanted, but she needed to keep her "men" happy. "Cubans?"

Sandor straightened up his stance. "Colombians."


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Most of my knowledge about the drug trade is from Narcos which, I realized, occurs way after this story does. Finding information about the cocaine trade during the late-sixties was a crap shoot, but shout out to Cornell Law Review. Their 1973 article about cocaine and its regulation is terrific.

Sansa had been raised to be just like her mother.

It was completely understandable. Sansa had been the eldest daughter of the family. She had fully accepted and embraced her role as a wife to man of power, whether gain legitimately or not—she would never use “honestly” because she would soon learn that the line that separately the rich on the “right” side of the law” from the “wrong” side was very thin—She would produce children, rule her household while her husband became the head of the family. Hopefully grow old to see her own children get married and have a family of their own.

“ _Be careful what you wish for_ …” Myranda had whispered into Sansa’s ear a few weeks after the latter became the next Mrs. Bolton. They had all been at a party hosted by the Bolton’s and the Frey’s. It had been an uncomfortable family especially with the Frey’s in presence, walking around, talking to her as if they hadn’t allegedly orchestrated her mother’s or her eldest brother’s murders a few years back.

She hadn’t known what Myranda had meant until the night she had received the news about her husband’s death. The wretched woman had been referring to Sansa’s new role as the wife of a mobster. The role was difficult, not as glamorous as in Sansa’s dream, and it didn’t stop when she became a widow. It only began because despite her personal feelings towards Ramsey, Sansa had been protected under his wing. No fool would dare touch her

No fool would have dared touched her if she had married any of the man she had been engaged to. Goodness, it seemed that Sansa’s luck with husband’s and fiancé’s were downright horrible: in efforts to repair relations, she had been first betrothed to the heir of the Lannister family, Joffrey, a man who had a wonderful job hiding his psychotic side in front of everyone outside his circle (and had been Ramsey’s personality doppelganger).

And then everything had gone downhill from there. Because during her horrible engagement, the Lannister’s and the Stark’s decided to having a little falling out over territory ( _of course_ ) and Lyanna Stark (for reasons Sansa still didn’t know). Which led to a war and the surprising execution of one Ned Stark.

After that, she had been engaged to another Lannister, Tyrion. She had actually liked the man. He had been a bit older for her tastes, but he had treated her well to the point that Sansa would have sucked it up to make the marriage work. During this time, she would see one of her dear friends, Margaery Tyrell, one of the sweetest and most beautiful women she had ever laid eyes on engaged to the psychotic Joffrey.

Margaery, who had some success in Hollywood, had taken the engagement far better than Sansa had expected. She had embraced her, but then again, she had been Margaery. She had wanted to settle down. But— _why_ she would choose Joffrey, of all people, would never be known. He didn't deserve her. He hadn’t deserved anyone.

" _Aren't you afraid of him_?" Sansa had whispered as the pair walked around the ballroom, arms-linked, greeting anyone they passed. They had been at Margaery’s engagement party hosted in the ballroom of the esteemed Waldorf-Astoria in the middle of Manhattan.

" _Afraid of whom, Joffrey_?" Margaery had shaken her head and scoffed. She had looked so lovely until the bright likes, Sansa couldn’t help but mused. And be jealous that soon her friend would be Joffrey’s. The bride-to-be had stopped into her tracks to grab a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by. " _The only being I fear if the Lord, and the last time I checked, Joffrey ain't him_."

“He’s a Lannister.”

“ _Aren’t you engaged to one, too_?” Margaery had pointed out, bringing Sansa closer. _“Damn, we’re practically going to become sisters-in-law_.”

" _But he’s a monster_ …”

Margaery had given Sansa a smirk and taken a sip of her champagne. “ _Every man in this business is, Sansa. They all just show it differently_.”

* * *

During the third week of June of 1968, Sansa purchased the land where Ramsey had died. It wasn't for any paranoid reasons, like Sandor had mentioned, she just didn't like the fact that it was just an empty plot of land. _Dirt_. It ruined the pleasant aesthetic of the small, suburban community.

"What are you going to do with it, Boss?'

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Boss?"

"Ain't that what you are?" Sandor asked. "Ramsey's dead. There ain't an heir running around so you the boss."

Yes, an heir. Perhaps Sansa was in this predicament because of her and her husband’s selfishness. With her terminating her pregnancies and with him, allegedly killing his little brother, along with his step mother and his father.

Though, if Sansa was to be honest with herself, it was also the fault of Ramsey’s birthmother, Mrs. Bolton, a divorcee who refused to change her married name when Roose Bolton had tossed her aside.

"I'm more like an interim manager," Sansa modestly replied. She never did like the title, "Boss." It had such an ugly connotation to it. She wasn't a mobster. "I'd like to grow a community garden. That's the least I can do."

“Your wish is law, Boss.”

Sansa glanced at the man and stiffly nodded. She didn’t want to think she liked the sound of those words coming out of such an infamous man’s mouth. She wasn’t power hungry; she didn’t want to lead a gang of men, but those words, whether she’d accept it or not, sent a thrill all over her body. “I’d like it to be done by September,” she said. “So the community can grow some fall vegetables. Maybe even give some to the unfortunate. I sure those in the city would love them. Charity work would do us some good."

"Charity work?" Sandor snorted. "Boss, we ain't the Salvation Army."

"Mr. Clegane, if I'm going to be involved in this business, I need a peace of mind," Sansa told her bodyguard. "I need to prove to myself that I can give back. It makes the sleep easier."

"Of course, Boss."

* * *

As much as Sansa hated it, she had to accept the shipments of heroin. The arrangement had been created by Ramsey a week before his untimely death. They had over two dozen clients to distribute the narcotic too—Sansa had no choice but to let it happen.

Her men needed the money. 

And Jon was still MIA.

* * *

Sansa honestly hadn't expected Arya to visit in the beginning of July. She supposed it was foolish of her to believe so. After all, they were sisters. Even with all of their differences, they were still sisters. Even though Arya couldn't stand Ramsey, they were still sisters. 

Aisha couldn’t attend Ramsey’s funeral not necessarily because she hated him, but because she couldn’t leave Aisha. Sansa couldn’t _believe_ Arya would volunteer to go to Vietnam. It wasn’t combat—thank goodness for her being a woman—but still.

"I would give you my condolences, but I don't think they'd be welcomed."

"Arya," Sansa breathed, relieved. She reached out to hug the smaller girl despite her sister’s half-heartened protests. “Your presence is enough.”

“I figured that,” Arya mumbled into her sister’s arm. Eventually, she pushed back when Sansa’s grip loosened. “Damn, are you trying to break my bones—Oh, and I’m sorry about not coming around earlier. You know, Vietnam.”

“You shouldn’t be out there.”

“I’m not doing anything special, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Arya said, following her sister into the house. “Just taking pictures.”

“Of battles.”

“From a distance,” Arya insisted, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Sansa, I have a better chance getting killed hanging around the Lannister’s than in Vietnam.”

“The Lannister’s kill everyone,” Sansa pointed out. “That doesn’t count. Have you eaten?”

“I did at LaGuardia,” Arya quickly replied before stopping and turning around. Her face broke out into a huge grin.

"Oh look who it is, the man they call the Hound!" she walked up and punched the man in the thigh. It was lightheartedly, and given her height and Sandor's the highest she could have gone. "How are you big guy?"

If Arya was anyone else, she would be dead. But Sansa was far from concerned.

"I should be asking you that," Sandor grumbled, but it wasn't out of annoyance. He might never admit it, but he liked Arya. She's a badass chick," he had confessed to Sansa over a couple of drinks some time back.

"I'm fine," Arya said proudly. "It's hard to kill me. I swear I’m so agile that I can dodge bullets!”

“ _Bullshit_.”

Sansa shaking her head, playfully rolled her eyes and continued onto her sister's guest room as Arya and Sandor bickered behind her. It would forever be wise seeing them like this. Two of the fiercest people she knew bickering like their children.

Arya would eventually stop to look around. She never was a fan of the home and its grand decorations. She felt like she was walking inside Versailles instead of some Long Island Beach out. It didn’t fit the surroundings, she had told her sister. Just something about it unnerved her—Sansa never took these suggestions to heart. “This place hasn’t changed,” she remarked, impassive.

“Just like your height,” Sandor added, smirking when Arya gave him the finger.

Sansa slowed down her place, glancing at each decoration, each window and each solider as she headed to the living room. “Ramsey didn’t like change.”

“He’s dead,” Arya reminded her sister.

“I am aware of that.”

Sandor said silent. He usually did when it came to talking about Ramsey’s death. She supposed he didn’t want to “self-incriminate” himself in front of the others.

“Then you should change some things around.”

“I have no intentions on staying here for much longer.”

* * *

Sansa hated Long Island. 

She hated the cities and towns. The businesses. The people. The smell. The atmosphere. The faint sight of the New York Skyline. The Long Island Railroad. She hated it all. 

"I have no life here," Sansa explained to Arya over dinner. It was simple because Arya insisted on it. "I have no friends here. The only reason why I get invited to dinner parties or brunches is because of Ramsey. People were too scared to say no to us."

Arya took a large piece of her burger and washed it down with some cola. "So, you want to go back to the North?”

"At least, I would get some respect from there."

"Respect isn't given—“

"It's earned," Sansa finished, rolling her eyes as she played with her mash potatos "I know, thank you."

"I'm just saying," Arya said, concerned "If you go back up there. People are going to bow down to you not because of _you_ , but because who our father was. If you want respect, you gotta snatched it up. Show people you ain't playing."

"What are you implying?" Sansa asked, narrowing her eyes.

Arya raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"What do you suppose I do?"  

“Make a name for yourself.”

* * *

She didn’t want to think about her sister’s words.

No matter how right she could be.

A week later, Sansa found herself having a light breakfast out on the balcony of her seaside manor in Rye. It was a lovely morning, with a light, gentle, cool breeze and with blue skies peppered with a few whispery cloud. A heard of seagulls could be head flying over the Sound, occasionally picking at the sparkling water-- she wished every more could like this.

She wasn't alone. Across from her sat Petyr, seemingly her most constant companion, followed by Sandor and Jeyne. Petyr had supposed to be staying up in Poughkeepsie to discuss business with Mormont’s, one of the Starks' most trusted, oldest and _legitimate_ allies. But he had insisted to meet up with the eldest Stark daughter in the morning. Sansa hadn't mind.

"Any news from the justice department, Mr. Baelish?" Sansa asked, dropping a sugar cube into her hot black tea before stirring the drink. "Good news?"

"The police have officially ruled Ramsey's death as a tragic accident. Petyr handed Sansa a copy of the police report and continued, "Killed by a pack of stray dogs. He was unable to fight back to due to injuries sustained during a nasty fall down the stairs."

"And the District Attorney?"

"He has far more other things to worry about," Petyr replied. "I know because I had a discussion with him. Plus, the building's been demolished..."

Sansa didn't want to think what that "discussion" involved, but she was grateful. She couldn't have a murder investigation hanging over her head. "So, we don't to worry about it?"

Petyr leaned forward and took her hand into his, running his thumb smoothly over her knuckles, he looked at her from under his lashes. He patented, confident smirk was present.

That man always had a hold on her. 

"We don't have to think about your late husband in such a manner ever again, Sansa.”

"Thank you," she breathed, not knowing what to do with her right hand. She thought about pulling it away, but it did feel wonderful under Petyr's touch. "I don't what I would have done without your assistance."

"The pleasure is always mine, Miss Stark."

Sansa smiled, using her other hand to bring her tea cup to her lips. She took a long sip and her smile grew. _Miss_ _Stark_. Petyr was one of the few people who took Sansa’s request to call her by her maiden name to heart. He never forgot it, and she couldn’t be more grateful.

The farther she was from anything Bolton-related, the happier she would be.

* * *

"Jeyne, what do you know about cocaine?" Sansa asked as she poured into a boat-neck black and pink cocktail dress that did wonders to her figures, but not enough to get people talking. She was to attend to a private early July birthday party hosted by lovely Olenna Tyrell in Staten Island.

Behind her, buttoning up her dress was Jeyne, Sansa’s personal assistant, social secretary, confidant, occasional therapist and one of her dearest friends. “It’s a natural stimulant,” she replied. "Used to be legal back in the day. They used to put it in _everything_. Even cola.”

Sansa took a few steps forward and sat down in front of her dresser, looking through the mirror. Jeyne followed behind her and behind to address the matron’s hair—Sansa never wanted Jeyne to think that she was just some maid. She had a maid, Lidia, a young Polish a sweetheart, but was never good with helping her matron prep for parties (she had been hired while Ramsey’s was alive as a second Myranda, but Sansa had talked her husband out of it). Petyr had insisted quite a few times that Sansa fired Lidia for incompetence, but the maid was loyal and loyalty was a goldmine in Sansa’s life.

Jeyne was not a maid, but she was much more proficient in makeup and hairstyles than Sansa could ever be. And it wasn’t even like a job; at least, Sansa hoped it wasn’t. Jeyne never seem it was, despite Sansa’s frequent questioning.

She loved these times. Just the two of them. Together with no one bothering them except for Sandor who was obediently standing outside of her bedroom door; it hadn’t always been this way. Sandor was an executioner, but he was the only associate Sansa trusted to follow her every mood, and therefore, the man would only be sent on hits during emergencies. Another young man, one of Ramsey’s favorites but who managed to treat Sansa like a human, Locke, would take Sandor’s place.

"Have you tried it?" Sansa asked, moving her head as her friend directed. Her hair was supposed to be put up into a nice bun, not a stray hair inside. Once done, Sansa reached into her jewelry box and put on her pearl studs.

"No,” Jeyne replied. "But my folks have. My pa used to swear by it before he passed. Said it took the pain away."

Sansa pulled out a simple diamond necklaced and handed it to her assistant. "Hm..."

"You thinking about getting some?" Jeyne asked, draping the necklace along Sansa’s shoulders, bending over, fastening it.

Sansa never considered trying the substance. There was an old saying that everyone in the drug trade should abide by: Never get high off your supply. The closest thing to a narcotic Sansa had ever tried as Benzedrine—a barbiturate— to kill off her night terrors (and forget about the life she had been married into), but she got gotten spooked after Marilyn Monroe's death back in '62. Hadn't touched those pills ever since.

Marijuana had never interested her; the smell was nauseating, and the effects weren't too great (despite what Arya claimed). And heroin? She hated needles, even during doctor appointments. Like Hell was she going shoot up some substance and have tracks up and down her arms.

LSD, as far Sansa was convinced, was for low-lives.

"No," Sansa replied. "Just curious." She pulled back her chair and stood up, heading over to her walk-in closets where her slew of shoes was housed. She chose a simple pair of pumps. “Do you think people would buy it?”

Jeyne shrugged as she watched her friend put on her shoes and strut to her floor mirror; she looked stunning. “It’s on the expensive side. Especially the pure stuff,” she said. “But I’m sure. People will buy anything.”

Sansa nodded, staring at her reflection.

Jeyne was right.

* * *

“The cocaine trade, a risk is it not?”

“I risk that I shall take, Dr. Qyburn. So, tell me about it.”

"It's made out of a coca plant native to South America. Especially in Peru," Qyburn, the Bolton family doctor and pharmaceutical extraordinaire replied, "Once refined, it looks like fine, white powder. So fine that if you blow it on it, it'll wither away. I guess that's why they call it: Blow."

"And the Colombians?"

"They're much more interested in the marijuana trade. Not cocaine,” Qyburn replied, sitting down in his medical office chair. “I mean, I'm sure they're some people involved in it, but it's not as wide scale."

* * *

"This is a risk," Sansa informed Petyr hours after leaving Dr. Qyburn's office; she knew that Petyr's intentions were always gone when it came to making money. They were walking along the shores of the Long Island Sound, barefoot with their shoes in their hands. The sun was slowly but surely dipping into the horizon, and Sandor was walking several feet behind them. It was beautiful sight, one of Sansa's favorite sights. The only reason why she wouldn't want to leave Long Island. "The clientele for cocaine is not as wide spread as heroin or marijuana."

"It is important, Sansa, to see the forest from the trees,” Petyr said. "Yes, the drug is not as popular as the rest, but if you look at the trends, you'll see that cocaine use has grown significantly in the past few years. I can only see that trend increasing, perhaps even exponentially into the next decade."

"My people won't wait that long."

"Patience is a virtue, my dear," "I do think it's a wise idea to talk to our existing clients about the shift to cocaine. They have money; they'll throw money at the purest of powder. Convince them and your people won't revolt."

The following day, after dropping Arya off at LaGuardia for her flight back to California, Sansa discovered a new sense of initiative. Arya’s words from a couple of weeks before had her thinking—she had to do something with her life. She had to get this family going.

And it was of this, Sansa tossed her purse onto a couch inside her husband’s coveted office and bee-lined to his desk of best kept secrets with Jeyne following close behind.

She opened the draw and pulled out a folder, thick, full with scraps of paper. She pulled out her husband's chair—alligator skin with gold-plated arm rests; gaudy to the point of disgust—bent down and unlocked the safe under the desk. She wasn’t supposed to know about this. She wasn’t supposed to know the combination; Ramsey had never been the one to talk to her about the business. But she was his wife; she was going to find out anyway.

And she had. Courtesy of Theon and his loose lips when he had too many shots of tequila.

After opening the door, she dug into the safe and pulled out a dilapidated address book, held together only be a thin rope tied into a bow—It was a list of clients. High-powered clients. People she had shared drinks with in the most exclusive places in New York City and Atlantic City, people she had traveled with first class on flights across the Atlantic. 

Sansa grinned.

" _So, what are you going to do with your life? Sit around, sipping on champagne? Dying away at the sight of socialites and gangsters? Doing not a damn thing_?"

No, Arya had been wrong. Sansa wasn't going to die nameless. Die as the wife, the widow, of yet another gangster. No, she was going to make a name for herself. 

Starting with this book.

“Jeyne?” She called out.

Jeyne rose from one of the chair in front of Ramsey’s table, eyeing the mass in her friend’s hand. “Yes?”

“I have a favor to ask.” Sansa leaned over to pick up a red pen from a desk mug and handed it to Jeyne. "I want you to scan those pages," she ordered. The list was at least fifty pages long, going back fifteen years. She halved the pile, some for herself, some for Jeyne. "Circle in red each person you know with means. With a decent reputation in this country. I have no need for hoodlums."

"Will do," Jeyne said, and after spending a better part of a hour diligently scanning the pages, she placed her pen down and announced, "Most of them used heroin, followed by marijuana. Only a few asked for ‘nose candy’."

Nose candy— _cocaine_.

"And who are they?” Sansa asked. “Those who use cocaine?"

"Professionals," Jeyne replied. "Even got a pilot in here."

"I see..." Sansa trailed off, glancing down at her pile. "Most people in my pile also use heroin, followed by marijuana and then... cocaine," she finished, disappointed. She didn't want to deal with heroin.”

“Is that the kind of business you want to get into?” Jeyne asked. “The cocaine trade.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess the only thing to is convince the heroin clients to switchover,” Jeyne suggested. “They’re rich. They _love_ to try new things.”

* * *

“ _Be what you wish for_ …”

Sansa grumbled as she heard the words play in her mind. That taunting voice who would forever be a constant thorn at her side even through death. If Sansa ever had the nerves, consequences be damned, she would have killed Myranda herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was doing this chapter, I’ve realized that one does not realistically become a drug queenpin overnight, so this story is officially going to be a slow burn in more ways than one. Jon’s going to be introduced soon—once Sansa finds out where the hell he is.  
> Thank you for reading!


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